Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I’m sure I make every last face under the sun for him while my stomach and heart do a twisty tango that leaves me feeling breathless and stunned and just a bit sick.
“You heard me,” August Marshall says, opening the box in his hand to reveal a diamond-encrusted silver band.
The thing almost blinds me. I’m sure it could retail for seven solid figures.
We’re beyond numb now.
I’m not sure how I still have a pulse.
Even in the dim grey Seattle morning, the ring—the flipping ring!—glitters impossibly.
“Are you crazy?” I force out slowly. “Like, are you having some kind of breakdown?”
“Crazy? No.” He cocks his head like I’m the insane one. “This is a proposal, Miss Lark. I need you to say yes.”
The words are already receding.
My head might pop off and spin away to the moon.
I am so confused.
“Excuse me,” I whisper faintly, even as the world tilts sideways.
“Miss Lark? Are you—”
“I’m going to faint again,” I whisper, barely catching my balance.
IV
CALM BEFORE THE STORM
(AUGUST)
This woman brings chaos wherever she goes, like a sweet but deadly perfume.
It’s been a morning.
First, Merrick called me in a panic.
Let me be clear—I’m not a morning person.
There’s a special place in hell for whoever invented them.
Mornings are a waste of time. Everything is still beginning, nothing solidified, and anything worth happening still can’t be dealt with until it’s had more time to develop.
What’s the point in waking up before I can take immediate action on pressing issues?
Plus, Rick typically reviews our global business and financial headlines affecting whatever industry I’m contracted out to now. He has a list of relevant articles and publications compiled in my inbox before I even sit up and yawn.
However, today he was browsing the gossip rags. Social media. Some odd little thing called Clubhouse, and something else involving a tick-tock.
All because people are talking about me for no good reason, and on a clock app where ten-second dog videos rack up more views than State of the Union speeches, no less.
Dammit, not again.
Regrettably, this time they aren’t only discussing me.
They’ve dragged Miss Elle Lark into my shit show, and that means I had to pry my eyes open before eleven. Not happily.
That also means I’m standing on her doorstep with the perfect solution to our crisis in hand, while she goes chalk white and sways like a sapling about to fall over.
Not a-fucking-gain.
This time, I’m glad I’m only one step away to catch her.
In one movement, I pocket the ring. In another, I step forward, sweeping an arm around her waist before she can do more than dip to the side.
She doesn’t fall as far or as hard as I expect.
I pull her up more sharply than I intend, right as she reaches for the door to brace herself in the frame.
Instead, she falls into my chest.
She reels to a halt with her nose pressed to the top button of my waistcoat.
We’re both frozen.
I’m struck once again by that damnable heat radiating off her, especially when people as frail and pale as she is typically have lower body temperatures.
“Um.” She stares at the base of my throat, not at my face. Her own face is redder than a fire engine, bringing out the strawberry blonde undertones in her hair. “Mr. Marshall, I . . . I wasn’t going to fall. I just . . . I get a little faint.” She swallows hard. “You can let me go anytime.”
“Right.”
Why haven’t I immediately?
Clearing my throat, I release her and retreat down one step, placing us a little closer to eye level. My skin remains oddly warm where her frame was just pressed.
“Sorry,” I say gruffly. “I didn’t mean to be overly familiar.”
“What?” She stares at me. “You show up asking—no, demanding—to marry me, and you’re worried about being overly familiar?”
Her eyes are saucers.
Their hazel is so close to orange it makes me think of a tiger. A tiger cub, maybe.
Only that cub has kitten claws, needle sharp but harmless. Her brows lower fiercely, unexpectedly.
She still has my hand. Her fingers are little slips of warmth gripping at mine with their softness while she pulls me forward with surprising strength.
“Muffins. Now,” she bites off, dragging me into the house.
What the hell is happening?
I nearly trip on the steps.
For a moment, my sheer surprise lets her haul me several steps up into the little cottage and down a hall painted in a soothing deep rose. It’s festooned in wall-mounted planters that drip flowering vines down the walls under the golden glow of tiny sun lamps.
I pull back, freeing my hand from hers and stopping firmly. “I told you I don’t want muffins, Miss Lark. There’s no time.”
She whips back, glaring at me.
“Don’t let Gran hear you! There’s always time for muffins.”
I clench my jaw.
She’s an honest mess right now—her hair sleep mussed, falling out in tendrils around her face. An enormous fuzzy bathrobe in pale peach wraps around her, trailing to the floor over a thin white silk camisole and shorts set. Her feet are stuffed in floppy, oversize fuzzy peach slippers that match the robe.